Your Heart will be Mine
by TheCreepingLullaby
Summary: onesided T-Bag/Michael, onesided OC/Michael, implied Sara/Michael. Slash. AU in which T-Bag was put on the team to find Scylla. Spoilers:none. Warnings:disturbing imagery, death, AU, mentions of sex, murder, insane!T-Bag. Oneshot. Disclaimer: I no own.


*****

The twisted pink tissue of T-Bag's severed hand was released from the stolen prosthetic and Theodore stared in rapture. He ran his fingers softly across the swirling maze of the scar, a Damning imperfection.

He placed the disfigurement against his good right hand. He had done so many breathtakingly phenomenal things with those hands. Like running his fingers through the gash of his first victim's bubbling throat, or holding his baby nephew for the first time. His nephew had been so pink with life in that moment, pink like the blemish on his left arm. Grasping his left wrist attentively he sneered.

He pulled the artificial hand over his wrist again and cradled the limb against his chest. He bit his lip, his empty brown eyes starting to fill as they settled back on Michael, always back to Michael.

There was that adoring look. The one Michael gave only to those he truly trusted. It was directed at Alex of course. He was the one person that could understand Michael, get into his head, had obsessed over him for months till he had finally tracked him down. The obsession was the one thing he and Mahone had purely shared besides being kindred Murderers.

He watched as Alex winced while Michael applied rubbing alcohol to a fresh wound on his back. Michael blew over the lesion gently and Alex smiled.

Theodore fingered the scrape on his left elbow. It bled slightly. His jaw clenched in hatred and he gagged at the scene for the first time since committing cannibalism on his hired Hispanic guide in the desert.

Michael gripped Alex's freckled naked shoulder soothingly while his other hand lightly caressed an ear when he tucked a strand of Mahone's hair behind it. Alex pushed Michael's hand away playfully and Michael looked rightly embarrassed.

What was so fucking special about Alex anyway? Surely Theodore could comprehend Michael's condition better, the way his mind seemed to function like a broken timepiece? All he had to do was shatter that ostensibly strong spirit, then he could take care of Michael better, in a way that Alex never could.

He couldn't understand how Alex had been so easily forgiven for his sins, how Michael could just overlook his obviously chaotic killings and treat the man with such admiration when, in similar situations, Michael had regarded him with such distaste.

Why couldn't /he/ be special? He looked at his mutilated wrist and had never felt so horribly self conscious. He was an awkward teen in high school again and Michael was the pretty girl in class that he had been too shy to ask out to homecoming. He killed her. She had been his first victim.

He wondered why Michael didn't touch him like that, bandaging his wounds like he did Mahone's, running agile fingers around the abused and protruding flesh. Why couldn't he be looked at like that, like he mattered, like he was important? If he could be looked at like that, then maybe...maybe...

Michael and Alex hunched over several documents now, leaning together, pointing at important sections, and conversing in a well orchestrated manner.

Each of his victims had something he had desperately needed and they all had belonged to him, in his own right. He could force anyone to his own will, he /had/ forced most of them to his own will, but they were wretchedly easy and didn't present with a challenge, although each had been beautiful and appealing in their own way.

Michael was something different, something /fucking/ special. He wouldn't have fixated on him so intently if he weren't.

He scratched the scrape on his elbow harshly and felt fresh blood well to the surface. Michael looked up from his folder curiously and eyed T-Bag's elbow in concentration.

"Are you bleeding?" Theodore looked startled as Michael approached him with the rubbing alcohol and some cotton. He sneaked a look at Alex whom at the moment was biting the tip of his pen and staring at them in a strangely neurotic sense. Maybe he was staring with the same red blinding jealousy he had felt awhile ago.

Theodore didn't flinch as the cotton that had been dipped in alcohol, with care, was touched to his abrasion; he had endured much worse these days. He watched as Michael's tight pink lips pursed together and a small peaceful breathe was blown from them to ease the sore.

This had been what he had wanted, but instead of that butterfly in the gut feeling like most normal people talked about, he could do nothing but think of hurting Michael once more, make sure he didn't get away this time. He wanted to grab Michael by the neck and chuck him athwart the grey bitter floor, then...then he wanted he wanted to fuck him, in front of his brother, in front of Sara, but even more in front of Alex. He didn't really love Michael, how could he? But Michael /was/ his.

"You need to stop clutching at your arm like that. You'll just make it bleed more," Michael stated, capping the alcohol and snatching a Band-Aid from Sara's vanity table.

"I don't need you pitying me, Pretty." He stared into his icy grey eyes dangerously and Michael looked back into his with a childlike smile.

"Who do you think you're fooling?" He finished with the Band-Aid. "You do need me." He sat up and turned back to sit with Alex at the grand table. "Hell, what would you do without me?"

"Michael," Alex warned, twitching nervously at the table.

Michael looked at Alex hard taking in his worried expression then turned to face Theodore with hands on his hips, a solid stance and a cocky gesture. "Well?" Michael waited and Theodore said nothing. He picked up the manila folder he had been reading previously and settled himself down next to Mahone like nothing happened.

*****

Theodore scratched his neck anxiously as he attempted to light a cigarette out on the dock. The flame flickered and went out. He tried cupping his hands, but with the stiff prosthetic bumping against the cigarette and his face clumsily he gave up.

He let the unlit cigarette hang from his lips precariously and stared out at the bay. He stuffed both hands in his pockets, hung his head a bit and raised his eyes to give an almost predatory look out at the sea.

If he couldn't enjoy a stupid cigarette he could damn well take pleasure in the revitalizing ocean. He awkwardly collapsed on the coarse wooden dock and inelegantly removed his shoes and socks with his good hand.

He laid himself out with a frustrated sigh, arms behind his head and observed the slowly darkening sky.

He didn't want to hurt Michael. He /had/ to hurt Michael. Michael hurt him first after all and when he abused Michael, he would stay, he would come back. Michael probably needed Theodore just as much as he needed him.

The sky was grey now just like Pretty's eyes. A couple of gulls flew by and Theodore crossed his eyes to stare at his cigarette disappointedly.

"Need a light?" A considerably slim, slightly scruffy man with dark hair appeared at the corner of his eye holding up a Zippo expectantly.

Theodore shook his head 'yes' in acceptance and the man settled himself alongside him, but preferred to sit back on his arms instead of lying down. He cupped his hand successfully over the head of the cigarette and, man made fire, his cigarette effectively lit.

"What's your name?" He lit his own cigarette and Theodore watched as the smoke lazily swirled and tangled around the other man's twitching fingers.

"Teddy," he replied, "yours?"

The man gave a lopsided grin and rubbed at his pant leg with the hand occupied by the cigarette. "Marshall."

He breathed in the name and let it fall softly past his lips in contemplation. "That's a nice name," he decided.

"Thanks." Marshall's green eyes crinkled at the corners and he looked as if to be grimacing.

"So, what're yuh doin' down this far part of the dock," Theodore asked, then sucked in a large lungful of smoke and blew it out in a huge huff watching his exhalation travel on the wind.

Marshall ruffled his black hair then touched a twitching finger to his parted lips. "I followed someone here," he said simply. The man was looking off into his own dark oblivion, his eyes shined with it as ashes clung to his burning cigarette desperately.

Theodore wondered who the man followed- down here- when Marshall continued, "I met them at the bar down the street there. You know, the Irish one." He flicked the clinging ashes from his cigarette. Theodore could probably guess who it was. It had to be Sara; she was a fucking addict after all.

"They were amazing," he went on. "And Fuck, I had to chase 'em here. I've never been so caught up on someone before." He scratched his forehead and turned toward Theodore. "You must think I'm some kind of stalker," he rasped.

Theodore raised both prosthetic had and his good right one, shrugging his shoulders in sympathy. "Hey, I ain't gonna judge yuh. Yuh wanna chase some tail yuh saw from five blocks away 's fine with me."

Taking Theodore's response as an acceptance he started again. "The bar was practically empty, as it usually is, and then there they were, in the corner of the room. The corner had been so dark, but the red Siren Light at the bar came on and suddenly I could see 'em, with each blink of the light." Marshall threw his arms around his knees and hugged himself, letting the ashes fall onto his worn jeans. "He was drawing so rivetedly."

"He," Theodore questioned, surprised.

Marshall looked distressed. "Yeah, got a problem with that," he queried defensively.

Theodore shook his head and Marshall continued. "He was absorbed in his work and each page of art had a new subject." He licked his lips, much in the same fashion as Theodore usually did. "One was of a young girl in a little yellow dress. She was reaching out for an apple at a stand." The man bit his lip looking lost again. "He dissected her in various sections. You could see the nerves wrapped around the bone in her hand. Her skin was peeled back to expose half of her face. She had blue eyes. It was beautiful, he was beautiful."

Theodore watched as Marshall stared transfixed at a grey wisp of smoke rising from his cigarette. "Actually, I've been trying to work up the nerve to talk to him all night. He's sitting with his sister right now." Marshall pointed several yards away to a small pool of water that Sara and Michael were hunched over, like two children, playing with their shells.

Sick jealousy rose in him again and his stomach ached. Of course it would be Michael. "Are yuh sure that is his sister?"

The man stopped torturing his lip and shrugged his shoulders. "Must be, they could be friends, I don't really know," he said boredly.

Theodore dug his nails into the palm of his hand. "I know him," he admitted, trying not to look agitated.

"Really," the man inquired. He leaned forward anxiously. "What's his name?"

"Michael." The muscle in Theodore's neck gave a spasm causing his jaw to fall suddenly and he snapped it shut quickly. Even That name brushing past his thin lips was problem enough to stir his Demon.

Marshall sighed and looked at the sky in a whimsical haze. "Michael," he pondered. "Like the Angel."

Theodore's sudden spite for Marshall grew and twisted in his stomach. He grabbed his artificial hand with his right one and rubbed circles over it with his thumb. Ashes spilt across the hand ominously and he felt nothing.

"That's so perfect," Marshall said. "It fits." He stroked his chest lightly, leaning back and closed his eyes.

Theodore thought Marshall must be imagining Michael now, touching him, those sweet dexterous hands of Pretty sliding over Marshall's nipples. He watched as the man petted himself, opening his eyes to look at Pretty.

Maybe Marshall thought Michael would spread those soft and pale sinewy legs for him. Maybe he thought Michael would lie there docilely like the delicate little porcelain doll he seemed to portray as his hips snapped into him at a desperate pace. Maybe the man thought Michael's appealingly plump lips would wrap around his cock if he asked. Maybe that man thought /his/ Pretty would let him...

Michael would never allow a man like this to have him; Theodore could never see it happening, but even so...

Theodore shifted slightly to turn toward Marshall. "Do yuh wanna know sumthin' a-mazin' about our dear Michael?"

Marshall stopped his self-petting and leaned down eagerly, messy black strands of hair fell into his face. "Yes, please."

Theodore smashed his cigarette against the dock harshly and stood. Marshall did the same. "Follow me."

Theodore peeked back at Michael and Sara whom were splashing each other and giggling. He did a quick observation of his surroundings, and satisfied that no one was looking, he smirked.

"There's this nice lil' shack 'bout a few paces from here," Theodore said, making his way toward the destination.

Marshall looked annoyed, scratching his stubble. "What's so special about a shack?"

"It's 'bout what Pretty does in the shack that matters," Theodore replied, trying not to look irritated.

"Pretty?"

"I meant Michael," Theodore added quickly. If Marshall found anything odd about Theodore calling Michael 'Pretty,' he didn't mention it, in fact, he most likely agreed.

Curiously Marshall asked, "Are there more drawings?"

"Jus' wait. It'll be a surprise," he grinned. The grin reminded Marshall of a cat that bit him once. His interest won over and he kept following Teddy anyway.

Theodore threw open the doors of the shack wide with flourish gesturing politely for Marshall to enter. He did.

A vast amount of fish and boat tools lined the walls. They gleamed dangerously. It did not affect Marshall in the slightest as he persisted toward the back of the seedy hovel.

The Demon was scratching at the back of his throat again and Theodore almost chuckled as he watched Marshall looking around confusedly. The man started sifting through a few of the boxes at the far corner of the shed and Theodore smirked as he gently took a large fishing hook hanging from the wall.

"I don't see anything," Marshall grumbled, growing frustrated.

Theodore drew closer. "Keep looking, it should be there." He was behind the man now as he sat hunched over boxes he clearly thought belonged to Michael. He felt the heat permeate from Marshall's body and felt the excitement of Murder thrum through his veins.

He hovered over Marshall letting his lips fall near the man's ear. He whispered, "I'm gonna tear out your fucking heart and then I'm gonna take your soul."

Marshall's eyes widened horribly and he pushed at Theodore's chest in a desperate attempt to stand at the suddenly dark Alabamian accent. Swiftly, as the man stood frantically, Theodore swung the point of the hook in an arc across Marshall's face.

The hook made impact with a sickening crack and blood splayed over Theodore's vision. He blinked several times before he could see Marshall clearly. The hook dangled from the man's cheek and blood gushed from his mouth as he tried to crawl away.

Theodore grabbed at the man's leg and dragged him back. A piercing scream was torn from the man's throat and Theodore Prayed no one heard him.

A squishing noise was made as he pulled the hook from the man's cheek and more skin was caught as the hook was ripped out the rest of the way.

Theodore examined the bloody hook. Pieces of Marshall's skin clung to the hook much like the ashes had clung to Marshall's cigarette earlier and Theodore thought it was fitting.

He realized his mistake as Marshall managed a shocking punch to his jaw. He stumbled back, tasting copper in his mouth and sneered at the man as he once again struggled to creep across the floor.

A wild laugh erupted from his throat. He had almost forgotten how much fun this could be. The man cried and Theodore chuckled louder.

He raced quickly toward the crawling figure, almost tripping and stabbed the hook into Marshall's right hand so that it was pinned to the floor. Pretty had taught him that one. Theodore grunted out possessively, "He's mine."

The man screamed again, sobbing, "'m sawr..."

Theodore smiled leaning forward and twisted the hook, "I can't hear you, you little bitch."

"Aaaauuugggghhhhnnnn! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry," he cried. Theodore straddled Marshall tearing the hook from his right hand and looked away so as not to make the same mistake as last time.

He flipped the man onto his back and raised the hook in the air treacherously. "Sorry for what?"

Marshall cradled the wounded hand to his chest and stared up at the hook with wide eyes. He sobbed again looking defeated, "I don't know...I don't know..."

Theodore didn't bother replying to Marshall as he tried holding the man down with his prosthetic hand. It slipped messily in the blood and he was almost worried the man would overpower him, get outside to where Pretty and the addict were talking at the edge of the harbor, and wouldn't that make a pretty picture?

Another slip of his hand and he decided to get rid of him now. He hoisted the hook above his head again and thrust it where the ribs joined the breastbone. Marshall gargled nonsensically as Theodore yanked the hook down his chest raggedly.

He appreciated the soulless green eyes looking up at him currently. Marshall's guts rose over the incise and spilt over his body with more soft sucking splashing noises.

Theodore cursed himself and snatched a rag from a dusky workbench. He wiped at his face and hands frenziedly. He took a few breaths and let out a sigh. A small smile jerked at the corner of his lips. He felt satiated.

He patted around Marshall's body careful not to make contact with the spoiling blood till he found what he needed. He stood and rubbed the back of his neck.

He stared at the body one more time. Just like one of Michael's pretty portraits. He bent down a second time and took a jade green eye.

He opened the door of the shack and rested against the grimy wall. He smiled as he watched Michael and Sara make their way back into the warehouse.

Theodore stuck a cigarette in his mouth and pulled out the Zippo. It shimmered in the setting sun. He flicked the lighter on and this time had little trouble lighting the cigarette himself.

He blew out a cloud of smoke and licked his lips as it made its way Upward. He gazed at the eye.

To an uninformed observer looking in on the situation it would seem he was conversing with the jaded eye. "Don't fret Pretty. I'm here," he breathed, "I'll protect yuh from those Devils," he spoke softly. Because the only Demon that could touch Michael was /his/.

He pocketed the eye. It would be his present to Michael later, when he would finally show him how much he cared, how much they needed each other. Maybe he loved Pretty after all.

*****


End file.
